


epitaph

by superlawyer



Category: Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied Attraction, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:59:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superlawyer/pseuds/superlawyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt tries to make sense of Peter’s apparent death. He tortures himself with the “maybes” as he attempts to work through his confusion, dismay, and grief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	epitaph

**Author's Note:**

> This was written months ago, back when I saw the unlettered previews for Daredevil 22 (but had not yet read the issue). This is otherwise based on current 616 continuity, and Peter's death. I feel like it might be too heartsick and sappy, but at the time, these were my thoughts. Angst, ahoy!

Matt sits hunched over his desk, his eyes faintly burning, almost reminiscent of the sensations from the incident, decades ago now, that seized his vision. He runs well-worn, bandaged hands through his hair, pulling and knotting. A sigh escapes his scabbed lips.

“Play the file back to me,” He commands his computer in the best monotone he can muster. It obliges.

_“Peter.”_ Matt’s voice, slightly distorted, echoes through the apartment.

_“I don’t know what’s going on with me anymore. I don’t know if I’m right. I don’t know if I’m all there anymore, I, I don’t know. This uncertainty plagues me. Just when I thought I had things together, for once in my life, they fell apart as quickly as I’d gathered them. I think you know this feeling well, too.”_

_“I’m not going to vent, though. This isn’t about me. This, this is about you. My friend. One of the few who I could trust.”_ A long beat. The recorded sound of his fingers rapping on the desk fills the silence.

_“Could. Not ‘can’. Fuck. That hurts. I admit that. I would never let you know that, but that’s where we are now. We’re at ‘could’ and ‘would’. Eventualities that will never pan out.”_

His voice grows more strained,  _“Where are you? Am I going… am I losing… that wasn’t you. That’s not you. That wasn’t you in that suit. You wouldn’t act like that. You were a good soul, with a kind heart, and a big mouth. None of that… person was you. It had your outlines and sounded like you, but it wasn’t you. I don’t need super intuition to tell that. I kno— knew you.”_

_“_ Stop.” Matt grits out through clenched teeth. The playback ends.

—

Drugstore cologne, web fluid, hot dogs. That is what Peter Parker used to smell like.

Drugstore cologne. He’d insist that the fragrance, something “inspired by” a leading brand, was much fancier than it actually was, right before Matt would dismiss him, and offer to buy him grown-up cologne from Macy’s.

Web fluid. Always web fluid. Swinging by him on their team-ups, dangling down in front of him to get his attention, hurling it in spheres and strings at foes, patching up wounds until they were out of the fray. The distinct scent constantly clung to Peter’s skin, and it was even more detectable in the fibers of his suit. Matt still isn’t sure how to exactly describe it, but it’s unforgettable. Something like Super Glue, spray paint, Sharpies, bleach, and artificial mint. Peter made some dumb remark about that description when Matt first told him. Naturally.

Hot dogs: Peter’s quick food of choice. Peter was such a stereotypical New Yorker in that he could be found at some dodgy hot dog cart at least once a week, in and out of uniform. Matt wonders, to this day, if Peter’s mutated physiology allowed for him to stomach that much “street meat” without harm. It had to have been another superpower.

Matt relishes these scents, now more than ever, holding a t-shirt he’d lent the younger man after one particularly rough patrol. He runs his fingers over the soft material, the outlines of it running in bands of magenta, his radar painting just enough for him to picture Peter in it once again. Drawing the shirt closer to him, he inhales the traces of him, one of his closest allies --  and maybe, maybe something more -- gone. The shirt drops.

Matt can’t do it. He can’t torture himself like that again.

For all of his fallen lovers, he’d bask in their memory for weeks. He dreamed about their touch, and the phantoms of their kisses ghosted on his skin. He drank them in, simultaneously haunted and entranced, and their essences overwhelmed every single one of his senses, all giggles and gasps and moans and perfumes and hairspray and Chinese takeout and fruity gum and waxy lipstick and curves. It’d all be too much, and made him withdraw and compartmentalize, never wanting to unearth those relics again. The sutures had to stay in order for the wound to close and heal. This was the mantra he tried to guide his life with, sometimes indulging in memory, but only if to repent for his sins, like with Milla.

He’d lost loved ones before. It’s not like this is uncommon for him. Matt’s entire history has been a procession of loss, starting with his father, and never quite ending from there, instead spiraling out further and further, taking more and more from him. With each loss, Matt secretly hoped that the initial grief wouldn’t be so immense. He’d build an immunity after time. He’d grow a thicker skin.

And he did. To other people, he had a thick skin, and a profound resilience to him. Or had. Now, he’s “unstable”. Irrational. Insane. There might be something to those claims, but to Matt, this is not anything incredibly without precedent. He’s teetered between stability and instability for a while, especially in private. In his other life, he’s boiled over, sought escape, lashed out.

This was the most bitter form of grief. Grief that jumped straight to the fourth stage: depression. Grief and regret, because Peter was gone now, and there was  _nothing he could do about it._ There was no one he could fight. He couldn’t fight whoever that was, not yet. Not when they still read like  _him._  There was no one he could go to with this, because no one would believe him. Helplessness is a feeling that Matt loathes, but it confronted him.

No. Of course he’ll keep fighting, because that’s what Peter would want him to do. He will try harder, for him, for his legacy. Yeah, Peter’s body was still around, but he wouldn’t let the memories haunt him. Not for long.

“I wish you were here,” Matt says, slumped against the side of his bed, the shirt still on the floor in front of him, “I need to talk to you. I just need to hear your voice again. I need to hear your voice again, and it needs to be  _you._ “

He laughs grimly, “Seems like just the other day, I was telling you to shut up. Now, all I want is to hear you again, with your bad jokes and stupid puns,” He balls his hands into fists, “And  _magoo._ Dee-dee. Every other dumb nickname you gave to me. I’d wear those with pride if you’d come back. I’d introduce myself to people as ‘Magoo Murdock’ if it meant you being here, for real.” Tears well in his eyes, only felt when in physical pain, never allowable from emotional pain, not at this point in his life. Boys don’t cry, and men sure as hell don’t.

“They call me the ‘Man Without Fear’. A ‘Daredevil’. But I’m so scared, Pete. I’m a fucking wuss when it really comes down to it.” He grimaces, shaking his head, “I’ll fight whatever, wherever, whenever, and willingly get myself into all sorts of crap, yeah. That goes without saying. But I’m too much of a pussy to say how I really feel, when it matters.” The teardrops roll down his cheeks as he confesses. It almost reminds him of childhood confessionals, except with much heavier consequences.

“I liked you. Not just as a colleague, or a partner, or even a friend,” He bites his lip, agitating the bruised flesh, “I wanted to tell you. I didn’t know how. I couldn’t. We couldn’t go out anywhere in this city together, because I wouldn’t want to get you wrapped up in the media circus, y’know,”

A pause, and Matt continues, “We have too much at stake for that. Part of the price we pay, but is it worth it? I’m not always sure. I just wanted to enjoy your company without the suits, and without sneaking around. Maybe we could’ve travelled out of New York and hope that the other guys’ll take care of the boroughs for a night or two, but we know how that goes.”

He hesitates, cradling his head in his hand, eyes closed, “I loved the time we spent together, on and off patrol. I’ve always admired your fighting abilities, and how long you’ve been doing this. Even am a little jealous of your powers,” Matt’s crying now, really crying, tears streaming down his face, pooling at his jawline before falling, “I will miss the pizza nights we had, even if they were too few. I will miss the banter. I will miss laughing at and with you. I already miss all of that.”

“I’m, I’m not trying to be dramatic. I. I only. I wish I would’ve told you. I wish I would’ve told you, because then maybe, maybe you’d still be here, with me, and I wouldn’t be this goddamn wreck, and maybe, we’d be on the couch right now watching a movie, with your head in my lap, and you’d be describing the scenes for me while I’d pretend to pay attention to anything else but you.” He covers his face with his hands, sighing, dragging down the wet skin with his fingers, “Please come back. I’ll be honest next time. I’ll tell you how I feel, about how much I want to hold you and kiss you and truly be fearless with you.”

His voice grows louder, struggling, pleading, “I know miracles can happen — resurrections happen all the time in this game. I know. Please don’t be the exception to that.  _Please._ ” Matt’s trembling, trying to assuage his misery, his anger. He reaches for the shirt, clutching it tightly in his fists, holding on, needing to hold on, needing to never let go of memory, needing to never let go of Peter.

Needing to never let go.


End file.
